


Vanilla Beads

by TheDarkFlygon



Series: Autumn Fever (Whumptober 2020) [5]
Category: Caduceus | Trauma Center Series
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Light-Hearted, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26996569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: Angie looks pretty, Derek looks like a mess, and they end up on his couch.
Relationships: Derek Stiles/Angela "Angie" Thompson
Series: Autumn Fever (Whumptober 2020) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966432
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Vanilla Beads

**Author's Note:**

> "Couch" is like the worst prompt ever for me, whose brain is craving for angst lately. Imma blame that on the number of amazing fics I've read lately that had angstier plotlines (author of Break the Curse to Breathe if you ever read this, this story was fucking great).  
> So I guess it's a little about couches.
> 
> I started this oneshot back in March for purposes I can't remember, but since I was frustrated to see it gather dust, I decided to finish it for Whumptober. 2020's world needs more DerAng and TC fics in general so here y'all go. Food.  
> (I swear I'll write actual angst/whump for this challenge soon, I *swear*).

There’s absolutely something to say about the contrast between the two of them.

She’s all tidy, ponytail swinging behind her back as she nervously bounces on her own feet. She put on the makeup she usually doesn’t at work, cheeks softly blushed and pastel eyeshadow on point, holding a plastic bag in her hands. She’s wearing a nice pink dress with frilled hems, faintly smells like vanilla and she’s just, well, stunning.

In the meantime, he’s a mess. His hair is all over the place, he forgot to put on his glasses before opening the door and he’s wearing nothing but striped pyjamas tainted in his own sweat. His smell can’t be much better, if “smell” it still is and hasn’t yet transcended into becoming a full-on _stench_.

Yep, there’s _definitely_ something to be said there.

“A-Angie…? What’re you doin’ here…?” He says in a hoarse voice which can’t even express his surprise to its full extent. Coughing has just exhausted it that badly.

“Ah, huh…” She sounds very nervous, for someone faced with a defenceless man and in possession of a confirmed aikido level (he’s seen with his own two eyes, that must be why he’s in disbelief that she seems so intimidated. Maybe he just looks _that_ out of shape today). “I wanted to pay you a visit because you… didn’t exactly look the best, yesterday. Is this a bother?”

“Not at all, but… you’re gonna get sick, you shouldn’t really stay here.”

Her lips press together as her eyebrows frown.

“I’m a _nurse_ , Derek. I can deal with this just fine. You’re the one who needs help right now.” She then shakes her head, letting go of her short-lived anger. “If I’m bothering you, I can leave. You may have been asleep, and…”

“…c’mon in, you didn’t come here for nothing…”

He lets her inside, introducing her yet again to his absolute mess of a flat. If he looks like a hot mess (and not in the positive sense that exact phrasing could have), his place is even worse because of how little time he actually gets to spend in here (being a surgeon doesn’t help him feel the need to keep a pristine place). Even if he’s never been to hers, he’s _certain_ Angie’s is as clean as the sample ones exposed in furniture shops.

He feels the urge to go back to bed because the shivers don’t care whether he has a guest or just wither around all day under his blankets; but he can’t do that while she’s here. He needs to show her he’s as serious as she is and that, well, you’re better than you look. He won’t let the flu disappoint the girl he’d like to be with, right?

Instead of the bed, he resorts to sitting on the sofa when yet another wave of dizziness hits him. After all, she’s seen him in a worst state than just sick with the flu (though, to be honest, he didn’t get the “chance” to stare at yourself when he was infected with GUILT). He picks up the plaid he tried to let go off to greet her inside as he invites her to sit down next to him, but not too near so she doesn’t catch whatever is pinning him to the couch to begin with.

“Please excuse the mess… Haven’t been in the mood to clean up, to be frank.”

“I can see that…” She comments as she looks around, her eyes stopping on the leftover cup noodles of two nights ago and a discarded jacket on the coffee table sitting in front of them. “Though I honestly doubts all of this dates back to

Haha, touché… Very much touché…

“Mess of a flat aside, I’m relieved to see you’re still able to get up from bed, even if it’s just to sit somewhere else. I was worried I’d find you in a puddle of sweat.”

Genuine concerns, even if her phrasing isn’t the most pleasing thing he’s ever heard, especially since it’s mercilessly about him.

“As you can see, I’m still alive.” He coughs a lung. “…somewhat.”

Angie’s face frowns when the sound of his coughing come to her ears.

“I’ve brought some stuff with me…” She picks up her plastic bag. “I’ve got you some homemade soup, a blend of tea my mother would serve me when I was sick, and, hmm…” She blushes and it’s probably not because she wants to match the feverish flush covering his face, though he’s got no idea why she’s suddenly so shy or afraid. “…vanilla beads.”

“Vanilla beads?” What’s wrong with vanilla beads? Aside that, you know, he’s got no idea why she bought him some.

“Y-yes… I always like to have some with me when I get sick, so I figured that, y’know… you could find some use for them… and if you don’t… then I’ll take them back…”

Derek gently picks them from her hands, careful not to let them fall to the ground when he puts a hand in front of his mouth to cough.

“They look cute,” is all he says as he admires the little, pale yellow beans in their glass container.

 _Less cute than you, though,_ is something he thinks but doesn’t say because it sounds so _cheesy_.

Angie turns back to him, cheeks still crimson.

“W-well, it won’t be a waste of money, then!”

They sink into silence.

“I’m… going to brew us some tea,” she blurts out as she gets up. “I-if you want a cup, of course. A-and if you want me around!”

“Sounds great,” he says as he coughs out yet another lung. “Imma help you, my kitchen is a me—”

“Nu-uh. You’re sick. You’re staying on this couch!”

He doesn’t dare go against doctor’s orders, so he bundles in his plaid and regrets not bringing a blanket with him. For how much he was sweating earlier when rolling in bed, he sure feels cold now. That sucks major ass.

The couch feels cold without Angie’s presence next to him, so he waits for her to come back from his kitchen, hoping she didn’t perish upon meeting the nuclear wasteland it’s grown to be. He can hear her groan from there and say something to herself about barely washed dishes lying around in an astonishing lack of order.

Still, he feels like he could stay couch ridden as long as she’s there, doing her thing. Tea or not, it doesn’t matter. In a way, he hopes she’ll ask to sleep on that couch, even if she’s got a job and he’s just on some sickness leave Sidney shoved down his throat.

Being sick can be worth it, he supposes, even if he looks like he just went through Delphi’s HQ again.


End file.
